There's a lot of silence in my house these days. I have teenage boys. My life does not completely revolve around them anymore, nor does theirs revolve around me. My oldest will be 15 in just a few weeks. I am quite aware that he is just three years away from 18. The first three years of his life went by in a blink of an eye, I know these next three will likely go even faster. I have a desire to cling to him. To hold on. To beg him to stay with me. Just like he did as a toddler any time I left to go somewhere. How the roles have been reversed. The child who I called my "velcro baby" now won't even give me a hug.
I'm sure my parents felt the same way. I look at my dad these days and I immediately am transported back in time to the man I grew up with. The man with the big smile and the boisterous laugh. That man is lost behind the mask of Parkinson's disease. His laughter has been silenced. I know I'll never hear it again, but thankfully, I can still hear it in my head. The roles are reversed here too. I am now the protector in this relationship. My dad who always made me feel safe now needs others to keep him safe.
Thursday morning, as I was preparing to make a phone call to the vet, I received a phone call from a nurse at my dad's assisted living community. She told me that when they delivered my dad's 8:00am meds, they found him on the floor next to his bed. As the story has developed, it seems that his feet got tangled in the sheets and he fell out of bed early in the evening on Wednesday night and laid on the floor the entire night, yelling for help. It makes me sick to my stomach to even write any of this because I cannot believe my dad had to go through that experience. Alone. In the dark. And being met with silence.
Something happened to my dad's mind during that fall. He has been much more confused the past couple of days. I have had long talks with the nursing staff. They have seen it too. His "watch status" has been increased. He's being checked on every hour during the day and now has a minimum of two checks during the night. I am incredibly grateful that he is in assisted living now as I can't imagine what we would be going through if he was at home alone. We moved him at exactly the right time.
My dad and I spend a lot of our visits in silence. I used to feel the need to fill the space with a lot of mindless banter. I don't anymore. We just sit together. Yesterday, when I said good-bye to him, his eyes teared up and he said, "Thank you for everything." I told him, "I'll always be here for you dad." And he said, "I know. You're a good person."
I am a good person. I'm okay with saying that. However, I'm not good for everyone all the time. In caring for my dad, I feel I've become less of a good friend and a good wife at times. But certainly, the person who gets the least amount of attention is myself. I know this is not healthy and I'm working on changing that, but it is not easy when there is always someone else to take care of. I am a caregiver. I always have been. I will always have someone or something to take care of in my life because I call that to me. And perhaps it makes me feel important. It makes me feel that I am supposed to be in this world. But I'm coming up on 45 years old. I told Olly last night that I'm likely well beyond middle-age for me. My mother died at 73, my dad is 76 and I'm not sure he'll make it to 80. My grandparents all either died in their 70s or 80s. I don't have a 90-year life span in the couple of generations before me. And if I don't start taking better care of myself, I will just cut down my own lifespan.
And so, in the rare moments of silence, I reflect. Over a quiet cup of coffee, alone in my house, I listen to the silence. The only sound right now is that of the keyboard as I type these words. The early morning air is blowing through the kitchen window as another beautiful late summer day begins. I have the entire day in front of me. I will make a trip to see my dad, but there is no one else to care for today except myself. I have work and school to attend to, but will make time for a workout and ideally some sort of enjoyable activity in there as well.
I felt a little sorry for myself this morning as Olly left because, once again, I am stuck at home with school responsibilities while he goes and has fun. My boys are at their dad's house. And this house is still noticeably missing Luna. I feel her presence and still expect to see her. But then am reminded that she's gone. I didn't want to spend the weekend alone. It has been such a long week with intense emotions. But perhaps this is a lesson in mindfulness. Today is about honoring myself. Listening to the silence. Hearing what it tells me. I am an introvert. I recharge in silence. And I get very little of it. Perhaps this weekend is my opportunity at a true recharge. Perhaps this weekend is not a reason to be bitter, but instead, it is a gift. Ah...how I love the journey that comes with writing. I almost always come out with some new revelation that I couldn't see prior to getting the jumbled thoughts out of my head.
In the almost 15 years since I have had children, I have very seldom been alone in my home, especially for an entire weekend. Perhaps I am lost in the reality that there is no one here to care for. Except myself. So, this weekend I will work on my capstone project, I will get some work done, and I will spend some time taking care of me. I will honor this silence and see where it takes me.
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